Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 133138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 666(@200wpm)___ 533(@250wpm)___ 444(@300wpm)
“That’s awful,” I tell her honestly. “I thought mothers were to be supportive? Tell you that you can be anything you want.”
“If you asked her, she was being supportive. She didn’t want me to get hurt. If I stayed home, safe and never pushing my limits, I wouldn’t have to find out that I’m not good enough, not strong enough, not . . . enough.” Autumn frowns, ducking her head sadly.
“Non. You have your mother whispering in your ear.” I make a talking motion with my free hand. “But her fears do not have to be your tethers. Cut them free, let your inner muse whisper her creativity, and I suspect you’ll be surprised at how far you can go and what you can achieve. You’ve already been to New York, worked with a good designer, and have earned your way here.”
“Thank you.” She lifts her eyes once more, smiling at my assessment.
“It’s not flattery. It’s fact,” I say firmly.
Our waiter returns with the first course, and our conversation pauses as the first white wines are poured. When we’re alone, Autumn seems more in control of herself. “What about you? Is your aunt proud of her internationally famous fashion model nephew?”
I dodge the question, which hit too close to home. “I wouldn’t say internationally famous. I’m just a minor celebrity within France, especially Paris. Here, I am recognized, but Aunt Jacqueline has done her damnedest to keep me humble because abroad, I’m any other man.”
Autumn snorts. “I think you actually believe that, but you are nothing like other men.”
“How so?”
“We can start with your six-pack and work our way from there if you really need an ego stroking,” she offers.
“Six. Pack?” I repeat, my brow furrowed as I search my mind for the word.
Autumn pats her belly, tapping in six places. “Six pack, abs, bump-de-bumps, man muffins.”
I figured out what she’s referring to, but her slang is quite fun. “Man muffins?”
She mimes delicately biting into a muffin and chewing.
“Now that I know what you mean, feel free to eat my muffins whenever you desire,” I offer passionately.
Ignoring my proposition, she sticks with the safer topic of the miscommunication of her slang. “The language barrier is a bit painful. Jeanette, my model, barely speaks English, and I don’t speak French. We’re making it work, of course, but things like that are a perfect example of the difficulties.”
“I would be delighted to teach you.” I pick up my knife. “Couteau.”
“Couteau.”
“Tres bien. Now . . . agneau,” I say, touching the roasted lamb that makes up the first course. When Autumn lifts an eyebrow, instead of saying it in English, I baaaa to convey the desired meaning. “Agneau.”
We keep going, me pointing out some of the various foods we’re eating and Autumn repeating. “This isn’t so hard,” Autumn says. “It’s a lot in the pronunciation, isn’t it?”
“Oui, French and English share many roots. But the accent is quite different.” I remember a story that might make her feel more comfortable about her lack of French and slowly begin to relay it to her.
“I met an American at one of our shows a few years ago who was annoyed by my accent and French. Kept telling me to check my privilege and told me I must be stupid because I didn’t know some of the American slang.”
“Really?” Autumn asks, aghast. “How rude!”
“Agreed. When I asked her out, she said ‘ew.’ At the time, I didn’t know what she meant and thought she’d said oui, so I said, ‘when are you available?’ and she replied, ‘W-T-F.’ Spelled it out, so I didn’t know what she meant. Again, I was thinking perhaps she was offering the option of Wednesday, Thursday, or Friday. Naturally, I said Friday would be perfect.”
“She sounds like a bitch.” Autumn seems genuinely upset over something that happened to me years ago. “And what happened then?”
“She told me I was slow AF . . . and I thought she meant go slow, as friends. I agreed, saying we were on the same page and that I was really looking forward to Friday.”
Autumn stares for a long beat and then breaks out laughing. “Seriously? You have to be bullshitting me, but if you are, it’s a great joke.”
I grin and don’t answer, glad she hasn’t saw that TikTok and leaving her to wonder. I shift conversation again, feeding delicacies to Autumn. Watching her wrap her lips around the succulent morsels is foreplay in itself, and more than once I wish that I were a piece of asparagus or a bite of chicken. Or that she was hungry for a ‘man muffin’.
By the time our last course comes, a creme caramel that Chez Madeleine is famous for, I’m completely enamored with her. “Fini?”
“Oui,” Autumn says with a saucy grin at her use of French.
“You are getting better already. Shall we?” I stand, offering her my elbow, which she takes gently. The valet has brought my car around, and I hold the door as Autumn gets in. Pulling away from the curb, I ask, “Can I show you something?”